


Secrets

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Murder, Partnership, Spies & Secret Agents, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Napoleon goes in search of his missing partner.





	Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for the QUOTEME challenge on Live Journal Section VII

**The prompt: "Friendship needs no words – it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness."**

**~Dag Hammarskjold**

Alexander Waverly sequestered himself at his command console located in the side wall of his conference room. He turned to his senior agent who was seated at the table; the chair beside him usually occupied by his Russian partner was uncomfortably empty. Napoleon was looking rather grim, squeezing his lips tightly together.

“I’m sorry Mr. Solo, but it’s been a month now since Mr. Kuryakin has gone missing. Procedures must be followed...eventually,” he said, with regret in his voice, yet his phrasing told Napoleon there was still time.

“Sir, just let me go to Zurich. I have to try to find him,” Napoleon asked with all the sincerity he could muster without sounding like he was begging.

Waverly paused, his bushy eyebrows lowered in thought as he inhaled deeply on the mouthpiece of his briar pipe, making the tobacco glow red in the bowl. As he exhaled, the white smoke curled up into the air encircling his head before he finally responded.

“Very well, but you have one week. Is that understood young man?”

Napoleon gravely nodded his head. “Absolutely, and thank you sir.”

“Find him Mr. Solo quickly.” Those were Waverly’s final words as the CEA left the office.Napoleon arrived in Zurich the next day, and inspite of jet lag, he went straight to canvassing the area where his partner was to have met his informant on the Münsterbrücke bridge that spanned the Limmat River near Fraumünster Abbey.

  
                          

He stood on the bridge, leaning against the rail, watching the comings and goings of people for two days; observing those who used it on a daily basis in hopes one of them  had seen his partner.

 

One by one, he stopped the regulars, speaking to them in Swiss German; though not fluent, Napoleon was able to get himself across to them.  He showed them a picture of Illya, but to his disappointment,  no one had seen his blond friend, not until he finally asked a woman pushing a flower cart.

“Yes I saw him, weeks ago. I remember him because he reminded me of my youngest son Rolf.”

Finally there was a ray of hope. “Where did you see him Gnädige Frau,” Napoleon urged her politely, but impatiently.

“Hmmm, let me think for a moment?  I saw him in one of the alleys here in the Lindenhof quarter, not far from the Abbey.  There were two big men with him, and I didn’t have a good feeling about them...like bullies they were, prodding him along up the steps. I hope your friend is not in trouble, is he?

                                          

  


“Let’s hope not Madam.” Napoleon’s heart skipped a beat at the news, and he thanked her by purchasing a large bouquet of flowers from her as a gesture of his gratitude.

He headed off to the area she’d indicated, pausing only to hand the flowers to a young woman who’d passed him; he spoke to her quickly.

“Guten Tag Fräulein. Schöne Blumen für einen schönen Dame_good day Miss. Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.” Napoleon being ever the gentleman, clicked his heels and gave her a slight bow.

Regretfully he left her standing there smiling at him, without saying another word to her, and had it not been for the urgency of finding his partner, he might have stayed and chatted with her, as she was stunning. She had a gorgeous figure, hair as black as coal, and the most amazing green eyes...

 

.

Illya Kuryakin squatted in in the corner of the room, huddling against the wall;  he was stripped naked, his hands bound behind him. He wore nothing but heavy leather dog collar around his neck with it chained to the wall like he was an animal.  Adding insult to his injury, a dog’s stainless steel water dish sat beside him. The feelings of disdain, frustration and a terrible sense of loneliness filled him at times as he’d begun to lose count at the number of days, and nights that had passed.

A dark haired woman, possessing great beauty, waved her hand to one of her Thrush guards as she sat at her dining table, indicating a small platter of leftover pieces of schnitzel be given to the Russian.

It was tossed on the floor in front of Kuryakin, and he stared at it in disgust, but he was very hungry and had no choice but to bend forward, eating the meat one piece at a time like the dog she kept calling him, though perhaps a dog might have been treated better, as he hadn’t been fed in days. He was cold, hungry and very tired of his situation.

The only kindness shown to him was when he uttered the words, “Badezimmer, bitte_bathroom please?”

That dignity he was at least granted and he would be led down a corridor, the guard using Illya’s chains like a leash.  Kuryakin’s hands were untied and he was let into a windowless bathroom to use the toilet and to shower.  Once finished he was again bound and returned  to his misery.

This had been his lot for weeks now, ever since he’d been taken prisoner. The contact he was supposed to have met  on the Münsterbrücke bridge, was in reality a double agent, and it was a trap that Kuryakin had fallen into all too easily.

The woman, Fräulein Elsa Beyer, was a raven-haired Thrush temptress, with a magnificent full-breasted figure and a narrow waist. Her eyes were green, and full of ambition....and lust. Her goal in life was to become a member of Thrush Central, and she was certain Illya Kuryakin was her ticket there.

She was like a cat, toying with its food, not moving too quickly to let Central know of her prisoner.  At the moment her libido had other uses for the handsome Russian.

Each night he was taken to her boudoir where she awaited him, having changed into a flimsy nothing, a sheer robe that left little to the imagination.  He would be chained to the bed, and she would sit beside him, taking a small atomizer from her night stand, giving herself several spritzes from it before putting it back in the drawer.

It took only a few moments for Illya would find himself drawn to her, and at her command he was forced to service her. He couldn’t control himself as he he became like the animal she told him he was.  It would go on for hours, as she was insatiable, and the marathon session would only cease when she saw he’d become exhausted, and at that point, she kicked him to the floor, like a spent, useless thing.

Night after night this scene repeated itself, to the point where the Russian became numb to it all; the powerful pheromones she used would take control over him, making him her whore at the snap of a finger.

He was led again to her chamber and chained to her bed as he had been so many nights before, and as she removed her diaphanous robe; he kissed her the back of her neck,even before she reached for the atomizer, begging her to free his hands, as they might be allowed to wander her body to pleasure her.

His words stirred her and Elsa looked at the lust in his eyes, deciding to grant his wish, but as soon as the Russian’s hands were free, he grabbed her by the throat, strangling the life out of her, silently and without hesitation. He cared about nothing but freeing himself from this nightmare.

Had it gone on much longer;  he knew he would have expired from complete fatigue, if not, he would have surely die at the hands of Centrals interrogators once she’d given him up to them....no, better to at least lose his life trying to free himself, even if it meant killing a woman. That went against his grain, but so was being forced into the role of sex slave.

He looked at Elsa’s lifeless green eyes as they dulled, almost regretting having to murder such a beautiful woman, though the effects of the pheromones still clouded his mind.  No, she was the animal, not he.

Reaching into the night stand, and finding the key that unlocked his chain to the bedframe, he released himself.

Illya rose from the bed, padding quietly across the hardwood floor to the bedroom door, opening it just a little and reaching out his hand as he stood out of view; he gestured with his finger, beckoning the lone guard to enter.

The man was struck in the head with a nearby lamp, and the naked Russian quickly removed the uniform and dressed himself in it. For once the clothing was a near proper fit, and the black beret covered his blond hair. Grabbing the Thrush’s rifle, he made his way through the building without anyone noticing who he was, holding his hand to the side of his face when he’d pass someone in a hall. Illya reached the front door, nervously turning the handle, as he exited into a small courtyard. Minutes later he opened another door and finally, he stepped out onto the narrow cobblestone lane.

He was free...

Napoleon walked down another narrow alley in the Lindenhof quarter, looking at each of the doors to the right and left of him, wondering if any of them would lead him to his partner. His time was running out...

                                  

He looked to the far end of a lower alley to his left, where the street split,  spotting a man in a Thrush uniform carrying a rifle and moving at a trot, coming towards him. Solo pulled his Special, ducking into a doorway, and as the man passed, he stopped himself at the last second from taking the Thrushman down with a karate chop to the neck.

“Illya?”

The Russian turned, looking tired and gaunt, but smiled to see the American.  “Napoleon, perfect timing as always.”

Solo ignored his partner’s wisecrack. “What happened to you?”

“A double cross...a trap laid by my informant.  I was being held prisoner  to be turned over to Thrush Central and just managed to escape now.”

“Well I was here to rescue you, but I guess you didn’t need it after all,” Napoleon grinned.

“Oh trust me, I needed it my friend, and I am very happy to see you.” The blond nodded, but said no more.

Solo looked into his partner’s eyes, knowing there was something more, something else had happened, but Illya wasn’t going to tell him.  He knew when the Russian was clamming up and oddly there was no smart remark made by Illya about him being late. Still Napoleon needed to know, and put forth the question that bore asking.

“You okay tovarisch? What really happened to you?”

“Fine” Illya answered. That was all he was willing to say as he refused to tell his partner of his shame. That was what he felt, not having been able to control himself. Though the beautiful Thrush woman used her concoction on him; he should have been able to resist it, that’s what he kept telling himself.

A team was quickly sent to clean out the satrap, but found it was abandoned except for Elsa Beyer’s body, adding more questions to Napoleon’s mind, but he could only guess at the answers.  He said nothing, respecting Illya’s privacy, and decided not to ask anything else for the moment.

The two agents went to the field office in Zurich where Illya was given a physical. He was found to be dehydrated and a little underweight, but none the worse for wear.  He refused to let them to examine his privates, as they were somewhat irritated and swollen and he wanted nothing in the medical report in regards to that.  
  
He put up such a fuss that the doctors finally gave into his demands...

The partners returned to New York on the next available flight, but still the Russian remained quieter than usual, if that was possible.  Illya sat beside Napoleon and for the longest time, simply stared into nothing,  as if he were in a daze.

The American tried making some small talk, but to no avail. After finally giving up, he turned his attention to the stewardesses. They were a pair of tall Swiss blonde beauties, and by the time he was done Napoleon had them set up on a double date with him and his partner once they reached to New York. It was perfect, as the girls had a three day layover, and Napoleon promised they'd paint the town red with dinner, dancing and most likely some late night frolics.

“For pity’s sake Napoleon, “Illya practically seethed once the stewardesses were out of earshot. “How many times have I told you not to set me up on dates.  I have no interest in the woman...or sex at the moment, for that matter.”

Illya was angry, and hearing his unexpected tone of voice, Napoleon apologized.   After that, the rest of the flight was deathly silent except for the muffled roar of the jet engines.  Neither of them were interested in the in-flight movie. Illya slept for most of the time, and Napoleon passed the time chatting off and on with the stewardesses and reading several magazines. Several double scotch and waters didn’t hurt either.

As the jet touched down at Kennedy, Illya finally saw the error of his ways, and spoke up, but still refused to answer his friends questions.

“Napoleon, I am sorry for acting the ingrate. You never gave up on me and I was...”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s what partners and friends do. How many times have you not given up on me?”

“Still, I owe you an apology.” He bowed his head in penance.

“It really isn’t necessary, but I’ll accept it if it makes you happy.”

The two men rose from their seats once the rest of the passengers had deplaned, and Napoleon nodded and smiled, thinking he’d have twice the fun with both stewardesses.  Illya averted his eyes, saying nothing to the women.

The cab ride to headquarters took little time, and the Russian went immediately to Waverly’s office to debrief.  The written report would be submitted later.

Once having filed a surprisingly short oral report with the Old Man, Illya returned to his office where his Napoleon was waiting.  The Russian was ordered to take some time off to recuperate, and gain back some weight.  In a few days he would be given light duty and at the moment, he found the idea of being behind a desk more appealing than usual.

He puttered about, looking for a particular physics journal before heading home to his apartment, where he planned to order in Lo Mein, fried dumplings and egg rolls for delivery. His only thoughts were to eat, bury his nose his journal, and listen to his jazz records. No doubt the bottle of vodka in his refrigerator freezer would keep him good company while he sorted out his feelings, some of which he was hoping the alcohol would help him forget.

Solo gave it one last try, as his partner was still quieter than usual, and that didn’t bode well in his mind. Illya was overdue for a one of his deep melancholy moods, and at this point it seemed as though that was the direction in which he was headed, home alone with those jazz records of his and do doubt a cold bottle of vodka.

“Are you going to tell me what really happened to you in Zurich or not?”

“No.”

Napoleon shrugged as he spoke, “If you ever want to talk about...”

Illya’s second reply put a quick end Napoleon to Napoleon’s good intentions.

“No....but thank you my friend for asking.” That was Illya’s final answer, and he left without another word.

Solo remained at his desk, still wondering, and guessed it had to have been something very personal to make his friend withdraw like this. Could it have been anything to do with Elsa Beyer and her murder? His partner professed to have no knowledge of who did it or why.

Napoleon began to piece together clues from back at the satrap... a dog collar and chains attached to Elsa’s bed frame, and an atomizer filled with what Research and Development called an extremely powerful pheromone.  The fact that she was barely clothed in a flimsy chemise told him she was expecting a lover perhaps, but Illya? His partner could do many cold things but sleeping with the enemy wasn’t one of them...that was a Solo prerogative with Angelique and Illya always expressed his distaste of such things when it came to the platinum blonde Thrush agent.

The image of the seductress Elsa Beyer lying dead stuck with Napoleon  but the thought of Illya strangling a woman...no. Not that he wasn’t capable of doing it, but Napoleon just didn’t want to believe it of his friend.

It bothered the American that when first seeing her body; he recognized her as the woman he’d given the bouquet of flowers on the street. Though he cursed the fact she was the one who’d kidnapped his partner; Solo didn’t beat himself up over it, as there was no way he could have known.

At this point it was best for him not to dwell on things. Chances were pretty high that Illya would never tell him anything more regarding the affair, and it would be added to the list of secrets his friend kept from him, as well as the rest of the world.

Illya’s desire for privacy would be respected. There was no need for words, as Napoleon knew their bond of friendship was enough for the Russian, at times, just knowing it existed.

That pledge and the trust held between them suited the American as well. Their friendship lessened the life of solitude and loneliness they both lived as covert agents for the Command...

 


End file.
